


Contrapposto

by Terminallydepraved



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Hunter X Hunter Big Bang, M/M, Renaissance AU, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, artist apprentices!killua and gon, artist!Hisoka, background minor killugon, hxhbb16, thief!chrollo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6972724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terminallydepraved/pseuds/Terminallydepraved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t usually allow visitors into the workshop,” a voice called from behind, and it was enough to remind Chrollo that he wasn’t supposed to be lingering.</p><p>His heart in his throat and the surprise a cold shock, he jumped. The weight of his bag seemed to get heavier under the artist’s humored gaze and Chrollo tensely turned, prepared to run if he made a move to restrain him.</p><p>Embarrassment coiled tightly in his stomach. He was a thief, not some art connoisseur.  </p><p>(Hunter x Hunter Big Bang)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contrapposto

**Author's Note:**

> wooooot so this has been done for months now and im super excited to finally post. i was paired with the resplendent redicool and ki-chain. Check out their gorgeous companion art on the hxh big bang main tumblr (hxhbb.tumblr.com). Thank you and all the bb mods so much for your hard work!! I look forward to participating again next time <3

They called him the Magician because what he did was nothing if not witchcraft.

Given the histrionic religiousness of the populace, it was an odd moniker. Odd, but not wrong.  

The crowd pushed and shoved around Chrollo, jostling him for his front row seat to the debacle occurring at the mouth of the studio. Even from this distance he could make out the labored grunts of the men struggling to move the heavy piece. He grunted himself as he was elbowed rudely in the side. It was always like this, everyone eager to see what new miracle the Magician had woven this time.

Everything seemed to settle into a quiet din as the men paraded past, the huge framed painting resting on the cart. Chrollo was carried forward with the masses, all desperate to peek over the side to look upon the panel. He cursed his height and tried to crane his neck to see. Voices gossiped and words grew loud as the image became clear. _How daring,_ they declared, _how inspiring._

Chrollo gave one last mighty shove and fell forward to the front of the crowd, his sight filled with the latest creation of the town’s resident artist.

His first impression was one of awe, quickly followed by uncontrollable laughter.

The painting was perfect as they always were, the color vibrant and the figures so lifelike they looked ready to wander off the backdrop and into the adoring masses. Even from this distance he could make out the overwhelmingly detailed nature of the fabric, the translucent sheerness of silks clothing figures from antiquity. The subject was one of renewal, of peace after hardship.

The fact that it had been commissioned from the family that had single-handedly driven the city into an economic upheaval was not lost on Chrollo. To think, they thought they could salvage their reputation through the Magician’s work. It would take a real miracle to do that.

Still laughing to himself, Chrollo had to give the artist credit. It must have been no easy task trying to reconcile the Hill Family name with something other than distrust, frustration, and loathing. And to do so in such a lovely way too, well, that simply spoke of the artist’s immeasurable skill. His eyes narrowed as he continued to take in the detailed piece, his gaze falling to the bright gold gilding the frame, the gold leaf halos of the figures glinting in the midmorning light.

Despite himself, Chrollo began to think. How much gold would an artist have at their disposal? Patrons were known to never spare any expense, especially when it came to furthering their own renown. He turned his gaze towards the studio behind the straining and struggling movers. Open shutters, multiple doors…if he wasn’t mistaken, the personal lodgings were located on the upper floor. That left the supplies and the art alone at night.

The artist was a busy man, Chrollo thought as he took him in, shouting and directing the men to lift a certain way, to grip here not there. A smile slowly cloaked his lips, the pushing and shoving crowd behind him forgotten as he planned.

How secure could a Magician make his studio?

It was as if the artist knew he was being scrutinized. He turned and Chrollo balked, surprised. There was no way he could have known but something settled heavily in Chrollo’s stomach as the Magician searched the crowd, determined to find someone or something.

Their eyes met for only a moment and Chrollo saw gold.

oOo

Silence and solemnity were the only forces at work within the empty studio. The master had long called his day complete, the apprentices no doubt off enjoying their meager free hours. Chrollo eased through the small window and landed with cat-like grace, only a whisper signaling his entrance.

All around him stood the half-finished projects of a prolific mind at work. Paintings stood in varying degrees of completion around the space, their figures and forms scrawled messily in charcoal across the primed wood panels. Containers of paint were arranged messily around the frames, as if abandoned. Creeping closer, Chrollo trailed his fingers along the lids, snatching up the boxes of gold leaf, the ivory-handled brushes. So much wealth, just scattered about.

He knelt and reached for another brush, pausing though when he caught sight of a scrap of paper partially hidden beneath a stool. Chrollo glanced to the doorway cautiously before pulling it free. Paper wasn’t so common that it didn’t hold some worth in itself.

This page though wasn’t clean. Across the sheet was a drawing, more of a sketch really. Chrollo traced the lines, the confident swoops and strokes of a hand well-versed in its craft. Rough as it was, he could still see the skeleton of the painting to his left, see the expression and tone the artist aimed to cultivate.

He made quick work of gathering the other sketches strewn about like unwanted debris, binding them with some string. The pieces themselves were far too large to move by himself. This would be the next best thing.

With the drawings safely nestled in his bag, Chrollo moved on towards the far end of the work space, eyes searching for the bits and baubles of a well-funded artist. The statues rose up to greet him, emerging from the forest of sheet-covered easels and mounts like the gods of lore. Unconsciously he moved with his bag close to his side, so cautious of the marble eyes appraising him as he worked.

These too were in varying stages of completion, some no more than partially smoothed shapes emerging from the stone blocks. Dust covered the wooden floor, the tools that rested on small tables near the unfinished statues. Faces bloomed from the stone like flowers budding in a garden. Chrollo tightened his grip on the strap of the bag and held his breath as he moved through the sacrosanct space.

Despite his upbringing, Chrollo was pleased to find that though they were only rough, undefined outlines he could still identify the subjects lurking beneath the unpolished stone. The faint traces of olive wreaths gave away the heroes he had read of in myths; a Perseus with victorious arms outstretched, the strong form of Hercules emerging from the lifeless marble. Diaphanous fabric flowed like silken waves along the curves of Aphrodite, naiads, and Arachne with her spider web noose. Olympus opened up around him and he walked among the gods themselves.

The valuables forgotten, Chrollo took in the figures around him and the life just begging to burst from the prison of stone encasing them. He caught sight of a sheet covering perhaps the tallest of the statues, its shadowy mass hiding in the corner. Curiosity carried him forward, the fleet-footed impulse to see all that he could see more enticing than the bag in his hand. With a hand that only hesitated for the smallest of moments, Chrollo pulled down the cover to reveal the god below.

The unmistakable form of Zeus stood monstrously tall above him, breaking from the marble block like the wrathful god he represented. Chrollo felt small, so minuscule beneath the stony eyes.

Fingers outstretched, Chrollo stroked the smooth marble, taking in the gradual change in smoothness as he trailed towards the figure’s hip. The statue was cool but he half expected it to move, the muscle articulation so lifelike beneath his hand.

“I don’t usually allow visitors into the workshop,” a voice called from behind, and it was enough to remind Chrollo that he wasn’t supposed to be lingering.

His heart in his throat and the surprise a cold shock, he jumped. The weight of his bag seemed to get heavier under the artist’s humored gaze and Chrollo tensely turned, prepared to run if he made a move to restrain him.

Embarrassment coiled tightly in his stomach. He was a thief, not some art connoisseur.  

“That’s a shame,” Chrollo gave, shifting slightly to the right where he knew the closest window to be. “The public is starved for beauty.”

To his dismay, the artist moved with him, coming closer with a knowing smile on his face. Recognition was thick in the air between them. At this distance, Chrollo could see just how golden his eyes were. They shone, even in the darkness.

“Now I find that hard to believe. I see you out and about quite often. They can hardly be starved with such a visage gracing them,” he retorted, backing Chrollo up until his back met the cold marble behind him.

With the rock against him and the larger man at his front, Chrollo narrowed his eyes and refused to flinch. “You’d be surprised then. Not many share your opinion.” He shivered as the stone sapped the warmth from him, the outstretched arms holding him in place, eager like the artist’s eyes.

The artist smiled at that. “May I see your bag?” he asked, tone polite but his expression something deeper, something almost threatening. It wasn’t that scary but Chrollo handed it over seeing no other option.

Their fingertips met for half a second but they kept their eyes on each other, staring like a challenge until the artist broke away to rummage through the worn canvas. His mouth curled into a laughing smile, humming as he rifled. His eyes flicked to meet Chrollo’s resolute stare.

“You’d be better off taking the ultramarine pigments, it’s worth far more than the gold leaf,” he criticized, pulling out a bundle of loose papers all bound together by twine. His eyes went wide when he realized what he was holding and he closed the distance between them even more.

“And these,” he breathed, surprise thick in his voice. “You must not know value when you see it. These are worthless. Rubbish.”

Annoyance rose in his throat, hot and quick, and Chrollo surged forwards to snatch the bundle of sketches. “Do _you_ even know worth? These are beautiful, as much as the statues and paintings,” he insisted, close enough that he could smell the fragrance the man wore. Light and citrusy, it spoke of exotic lands. For a moment he was almost distracted.

Eyes wide and expression stunned the artist grabbed his wrist before he was able to take back the papers. “You’d be surprised,” he said, echoing his words from before. He stroked his thumb over Chrollo’s pulse point, feeling his heart beat rabbit fast. “Not many would share your opinion.”

“Then they’re idiots,” he said bluntly, brow furrowed. He was hyper-aware of their proximity, of the stone cradling him from behind. The papers were pressed into his caught hand and he took them, holding his breath.

“Tell me your name.”

The request came quietly, built from the tension between them. His hand was warm where it held Chrollo’s. Golden eyes were intent, full of some undefinable fire.

He didn’t balk but it was a close thing.

“I’m…Chrollo,” he answered reluctantly as the bag, still full of pilfered wealth, was extended to him as well.

He was reluctant to take it but the man already had him in hand. It couldn’t really get much worse, if he had worse in mind.

The smile on his face was patently pleased. “Hello, Chrollo. It’s rather late, but I would love it if you’d stop by sometime. I promise you the finished pieces are far better.”

“What?” Chrollo snatched the bag from him. “Don’t you care that I’m stealing from you?”

“Not particularly. The patrons pay for the materials, it’s not my fault if I’m robbed,” he said nonchalantly, as if it were merely a discussion of the weather. “A little bit of gold and some old brushes are worth it if it entices you to come back, say, tomorrow?”

Struck, Chrollo could hardly comprehend what he was hearing. “Are all artists like this? Completely insane?” he heard himself ask, the words coming out unbidden.

Finally, finally, the artist released his hand, backing off so he wasn’t quite so pinned in the embrace of the statue. “Only the good ones,” he answered, opening the door like a true gentleman.

And with that echoing in his ears, Chrollo darted from the workshop, unsure of how to process the laughter showing him out.

oOo

He had no idea why he went back.

The child working near the door stared up at him with narrowed eyes, almost glaring. “We don’t let the riffraff in here,” the kid snipped, never stopping the incessant movements of his hands within the white mixture contained in the bucket between his legs. “Go away before Hisoka gets pissed.”

Before he could defend himself, another child darted up, smacking his friend. “Killua! You know you aren’t supposed to talk to people like that! It’s bad for business!” He turned to Chrollo, an abashed smile on his face as he pointedly ignored Killua’s angry grumbling. “Sorry about that! My name’s Gon, I’m an apprentice here. Can I help you? Are you here to see Hisoka?” Even as he spoke he held his friend down by his shoulders, keeping his hands submerged in the goop to prevent retaliation.

Chrollo almost laughed but he didn’t trust the first child to keep the thick mess in the bucket where it belonged. “I was told to stop by,” he said instead, leaning against the door frame. Just past the boys sat an unfinished wood panel, ostensibly waiting for a subject to capture. He wondered if he held the sketch of its intended design. “The master seems to want to show me some of his work.”

The boys shared a look heavy with disbelief.

Killua gave him another once over, this one more appraising. “You don’t look rich enough to be a patron,” he said disparagingly, the paleness of his skin only a few shades darker than the plaster he was working. “What would Hisoka want with you?”

Chrollo ignored the implications the boy seemed to be making and was thankfully spared having to respond.

“Boys, I don’t pay you to harass visitors,” came an ominous voice somewhere behind them. Chrollo turned, catching sight of the artist from the night before. He looked significantly less hospitable though it was more directed at his apprentices than Chrollo himself.

Killua glared, a bratty frown on his face. “You hardly pay us at all, Hisoka. And since when do you allow _visitors_?” He said the word like an innuendo and Chrollo rolled his eyes, looking to Hisoka with an expectant glance.

Hisoka smiled dangerously and it was a testament to how well-trained the boys were that they both balked. “Feeling neglected? I could always just send you back home. I know your brother misses you terribly,” he said breezily, grinning wider when the pale boy growled.

Gon placed a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder, smiling a bright and sunny smile. Friendly as it was, Chrollo swore he could see steel threading the gesture. “We’ll go get back to work,” he said, pointedly pushing Killua outside. “Sorry for the hassle.”

Chrollo waited for them to be out of sight before turning towards the artist.

“Good afternoon,” he gave, a bit uncomfortable. Keeping one foot in the threshold, he leaned against the door frame. “That child, Gon...” he trailed off, watching the boys shoving each other in the courtyard, splashing each other with water from the nearby well.

Hisoka smiled, blinking slowly like a cat. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

“He’s interesting. There’s more to him, something under the surface.

“That’s why I took him in. I saw something and I want to see more. He’s very talented,” the artist commended. There was silence for a moment as they watched the apprentices outside. “I’m very glad you decided to come back. I wanted to see more of you very much as well.”

Chrollo shuffled a bit, shifting his weight beneath the pleased stare. “Well, any mark willing to give me advice on what to steal deserves some consideration. What did you want to show me?” he asked, ready to bolt if he felt something off.

Hisoka grinned, gesturing for him to come inside. “Let’s get away from the young ones,” he coaxed. Paint smeared his clothing, dust dulling the red of his hair. “I could use someone with discerning taste. It can be so hard to find appreciative audiences.”

Still a bit on guard, Chrollo allowed himself to be led into the workshop proper. He was eager to see more art. “Aren’t they a little young to be working?” he asked, though even as he said it he didn’t really believe it. Chrollo had been stealing for as long as he could recall. The children in the workshop, young as they were, at least were developing a trade.

Hisoka guided him forward with a hand on the small of his back, leading him through the dusty space. “It’s good to have small hands sometimes,” he gave. “Saves me the trouble of doing the grunt work myself.”

“Don’t patrons pay you to do their commissions, not children?” As he spoke he couldn’t help but look around in wonder, taking in the work around him with new appreciation. Everything looked so much more vibrant in the daylight. Already he felt like returning was worth it, even with the proprietary hand on his waist.

Hisoka led him through a door and into a rear part of the studio, a place he hadn’t managed to explore the night before. “Well of course,” he said, not quite defensive but a bit surprised, as if he thought Chrollo should already know the ins and outs of the business of art. “They pay me to give life to their unrefined thoughts. I let the apprentices busy themselves with backgrounds, minor aspects. They have to learn sometime. I save the best parts for myself though.”

He gave Chrollo an appraising look as if judging him something worthy of his personal touch.

Chrollo bit his lip and turned away from the heated stare.

“What did you want to show me?” he asked instead of continuing that train of thought, skimming his fingers over a wooden support structure. “What is this?”

It was a cumbersome thing, an amalgamation of wood and struts that seemed to stand a head taller than himself. He tapped at the metal shoots stabbed through the thing, feeling more than hearing the hollowness. Beside it sat a far smaller clay form, beautifully articulated into the shape of a poised youth, laurels crowning his head.

Hisoka paused and furrowed his brow. “Oh this? Just the frame for pouring bronze. The mold is already inside, I’m just waiting for the weather to become more agreeable.”

Nodding distractedly, Chrollo sank to his knees and with gentle fingers, took in the miniscule details littering the mock-up. The eyes were what drew him. Small as they were, they held such sorrow, bearing the weight of the world in their reddish depths.

“Who is this?” he asked, looking at Hisoka when the artist crouched down beside him, his warm shoulder solid against his own.

Cupping his chin, Hisoka kept his gaze on Chrollo. “Icarus. For a client. He asked for something dull but I was able to coax him towards a vision with actual taste.” With careful fingers he reached out and turned the small clay form, showing off the scarred back, the minute hatchings and scratches of burnt feathers streaming from his scorched shoulders. Chrollo felt his breath stutter and he wasted no time in touching them, imagining that he could feel the blistering heat, smell the stink of burnt flesh and fear that the myth carried.

He broke away from the piece to stare at Hisoka, his eyes wide, his heart pounding. “Did you sculpt this?” Looking at the monstrous mold towering above them both, he couldn’t quite imagine it yielding such details. Couldn’t see it creating.

Hisoka looked so nonchalant in the face of his own skill. “It’s not that impressive,” he downplayed, spinning the small piece with as much care as one would afford a toy. “Just a necessary evil in gaining perspective in three-dimensions.”

He didn’t seem to notice Chrollo’s shocked expression, instead standing and brushing dust from his clothing. “Come, let me show you something actually worth seeing,” he offered, holding out a hand to the thief sitting in awe of his cast offs.

Hand in hand they moved deeper into the backroom until Hisoka finally brought them to a far wall, upon which were dozens of wood panels leaning. These too were in varying stages of completion, like everything in the place it seemed. Chrollo looked to the artist, his brow raised.

“These are my personal pieces. Commissions can be draining, restricting,” he admitted, walking up to a panel where the form of a person was vaguely painted. “You can imagine I don’t have much time to work on them but they’re a better representation of what I enjoy doing.”

Chrollo drank in the art like a man dying of thirst, falling to his knees once again to stare at them in wonder. “They’re beautiful,” he breathed, tracing the layers with his eyes. “How do you even do this?” he asked. Half the works were incomplete, merely the frameworks of ideas yet to be realized, but already they showed such depth. Shadows played with light, the colors robust and granting the fabric the illusion of movement.

If he wasn’t mistaken, Hisoka almost appeared flustered. Running his hand through his wild hair, he shifted. “Practice, I suppose. Layers and layers of paint too. Oil shows light, you can build complex colors and develop chiaroscuro. Let me know if I’m boring you with any of this.”

Bored was the furthest thing from what Chrollo felt.

“Magic,” he whispered, inching closer to the scenes as if it would help him appreciate the magnitude of what he was seeing. “Complete witchcraft.”

Hisoka laughed and joined him on the floor. “That is what they call it, isn’t it? And yet they still beg me for more. What an odd arrangement. 

Silence grew fondly between them as Chrollo soaked it all in, moving between pieces on his knees like a child.

Throughout it all, Hisoka’s eyes rested heavily on him. It was almost as if he himself were another piece of art to be appreciated.

With the talent laid out before him, Chrollo could only hope he was anything half as interesting to look at.

oOo

“Good morning, Chrollo!” chirped Gon over the sound of his sanding. The wooden structure beneath him bore the work of hours of labor but Chrollo could tell that the boy was far from done. “Here to see Hisoka?”

Chrollo closed the door behind him and crouched down beside the child, smiling at him as he watched him sand the surface to a glasslike smoothness. “I am. How are you today? Where is Killua?” He could spare some time with small talk, he thought. The boy worked incredibly hard. He probably didn’t get paid much attention outside of his chores.

Gon, proving his assumption, didn’t so much as pause in his sanding to answer him. “I’m doing pretty well! It’s a prep day so we’re all getting the materials ready for Hisoka to work on some big commissions. I think Killua was assigned to do more gesso, since he annoyed Hisoka again.”

Here he wrinkled his nose, as if disappointed in his own friend’s behavior. “He likes to argue with him and Hisoka knows how much Killua hates touching gesso. He says it feels like sticking his hands in snot.” He said it with fondness, smiling to himself as he recalled his best friend’s disgust. “I don’t think it’s that bad but Killua gets grossed out by stuff like that.”

At that, Chrollo laughed. So Hisoka had a childish side of his own, making the boy work with something he hated.

“Sounds like he’s in for a fun day. Do you mind me asking what gesso is? I’m afraid I’m not much of an artist,” he admitted. It wasn’t as if Hisoka tried to bewilder him with terminology but Chrollo still felt a bit overwhelmed with the unfamiliar nomenclature of an artist’s domain.

Gon shot him a bright smile and didn’t seem to mind at all. “Oh, it’s something we use as a primer,” he said, stopping his sanding to knock on the wood panels. “You can’t just paint on top of this. I could sand for a year and it’ll never be perfect. We get it as smooth as we can and then layer it with gesso, let it dry, and then it’s a nice flat surface for painting!”

Chrollo soaked the lesson in. “What about, what was it? Chiar-something? Hisoka said it when telling me about his oil paintings. Is that some type of material too?” He settled down on the floor fully, crossing his legs.

“Oh, do you mean chiaroscuro?” he asked, the word rolling off his tongue effortlessly. Chrollo nodded, eager to learn more. “That’s more a technique than a material. It’s when you use dark and light to build contrast, to make an image look like it’s real. Hisoka’s really good at it,” he continued, growing a bit excited. “It takes so long to learn but it really brings a piece to life! I can’t wait until I can do it too.”

Gon spoke with such confidence and determination that Chrollo had no doubt in his mind that he’d be hearing his name spoken in the same breath as the masters in no time. Smiling, Chrollo looked around them. “I bet you’ll be quite the artist once your apprenticeship is done. Say, have you seen Hisoka? Usually he’d have stumbled upon us by now.”

His hands on his hips, Gon too took a look around the busy studio. “I can’t say I’ve seen him today,” he replied, his brow furrowed. “You’re right though, usually he’s out here checking on us and ordering us around.”

It was Chrollo’s turn to frown now. He hadn’t said he was stopping by today but that had never been a problem before. “Maybe he’s in the back, where he keeps his non-commissioned works?” Chrollo guessed, brushing some wood dust from his trousers.

“He lets you back there?” Gon exclaimed with eyes wide. “He must really like you. Hisoka never lets any of us in there unless he needs an extra hand moving something. He’s really shy about his unfinished pieces.”

Chrollo blinked in surprise. Nothing would have ever given him the impression that Hisoka was shy about anything, except for maybe when receiving compliments. “I suppose he likes my reactions,” he gave, unable to come up with anything that made more sense. “I’ll go look for him and leave you to your work. Thank you for your company, Gon.”

Gon smiled as bright as the sun and waved, his hands calloused and covered in dust. “It’s no problem at all! Let me know if you can’t find him and I’ll help you search,” he offered. “I’ll get Killua to help too!”

They parted ways and Chrollo left him with his sanding, a smile still clinging to his lips.

He navigated the studio with a grace born of familiarity, moving towards the space where Hisoka stored his personal projects. If he couldn’t find him there then he’d just look his fill, maybe sneak around and explore the back areas some more before going back to Gon for help. There had to be more things lying in wait beyond what Hisoka had already shown him.

Silence greeted him when he crossed into the storage portion of the studio, the heavy door behind him shutting out the bangs and rattles of the apprentices hard at work in the main room.  Nothing seemed to have changed since he had last been here, the frames and panels still scattered about in a system that no doubt made sense to Hisoka but no one else. He trailed his fingers along the tops of the panels, taking in the smooth white of what he figured must be the applied gesso. On some of the more unfinished pieces he could see huge swatches of it bleeding through the thin layers of paint.

Maybe Gon or Killua applied it, he mused as he moved along. Maybe they had left their own marks on the art, below the surface of Hisoka’s mastery.

He turned past a stack of paintings and came face to face with the artist in question.

Chrollo started a bit, not expecting to find him buried in the depths of his unfinished works. Hisoka was reclined in a chair, some comfortable looking thing surrounded by sketch paper, pencils, and the stubs of charcoal. On his lap rested a sketchbook, in his fingers a loosely held pencil. It wasn’t until he inched closer that he realized Hisoka had fallen asleep, his pencil still pressed to the paper.

“Hisoka?” Chrollo whispered, quietly approaching the chair. When he didn’t wake Chrollo smiled and began to tidy up the detritus of a working artist, gathering the pencils and charcoals into a neat pile so they wouldn’t be stepped on. Dark smudges darkened the space below Hisoka’s eyes and Chrollo couldn’t find it in himself to wake him, not when he had been at work on a design for so long.

He pulled the sketchbook from lax hands and settled himself on the armrest of the chair. Taking another quick look to make sure he was still asleep, Chrollo opened the book to its first page.

As he had expected, it was full of the designs he probably showed to patrons. Reliquaries and religious scenes took up the pages, hastily scribbled notes and numbers littering the margins. Chrollo took in the messy lines, the fluid arcs that symbolized light and motion, the dark shadows that built depth and dimension on a flat surface. In his head he tried to guess which saints were being depicted, smiling gently when he noticed how carefully Hisoka had woven context into his portraitures. A palm frond here, an iron grill there; he could tell even from sketches who the subjects were.

He flipped the page and nearly choked on his laughter, the back of the previous commission holding doodles and annoyed commentary from Hisoka himself. Instead of more careful line work there were angry little drawings of what had to have been the patron, his head ballooned into a cartoonishly derisive blob with immense ears and a bulbous nose.

Chrollo tried to smother his noises beneath his hand but Hisoka had such a scathing response to the patron’s unreasonable demands that he wasn’t all that successful. The chair nearly shook with his laughter and it didn’t surprise him when strong arms reached for his waist. Chrollo let himself be pulled into Hisoka’s lap, the book and its contents coming with him.

“Good morning,” he greeted, his smile so infectious that he saw it reflected on Hisoka’s worn out face. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Hisoka yawned widely and took him in, his mind still sleep muddled. “I didn’t know you’d be visiting today. I would have made sure I was awake if I had.”

Chrollo readjusted a bit to get more comfortable and looked back to the sketchbook in his lap. “Don’t worry, Gon kept me company and was most gracious in welcoming me back. And I’ve been very entertained,” he replied, flipping to the next page to see what else Hisoka had thought of his past commissioners.

Hisoka blinked slowly at him and the book and Chrollo could almost see the gears turning, trying to process what was before him. All it took was another page to be turned for his eyes to widen.

“You don’t want to look at that,” he said, his tone a bit strained. “How about I show you something a bit more worth seeing?”

Chrollo raised a brow but pointedly avoided the reaching hand aimed for the sketchbook. “I think I’m perfectly content, Hisoka. This is very informative. I had no idea that the Hill Family had such a well-endowed patriarch, or that he was capable of such acts of flexibility.”

“Well if you’ve ever met him you’d think the same,” he rushed. Hisoka, his cheeks flushed and his movements a bit panicked, tried to snatch the book from him. Chrollo laughed and evaded it easily.

“Oh come on,” he teased, “I’m not some art critic. They’re all going to be wonderful if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Wilting against his shoulder, Hisoka buried his face in Chrollo’s neck instead of responding. He had never seen him so bashful and Chrollo stroked through his hair, not mentioning that he could feel Hisoka’s blush where their skin touched.

He flipped another page and froze, his own face growing hot.

“Is this...me?” he asked, his fingertips touching the dark lines gently. There was no full body portrait, nothing truly defining, but there was an eye here, a hand there, a few attempts at capturing a mouth in the midst of speaking, smiling, contemplation; even in pieces he knew the characteristics of his own body well enough to recognize them for what they obviously were.

Hisoka held him tighter and didn’t lift his head, merely nodding.

Chrollo didn’t quite know how to respond. He turned another page and found even more sketches, this time a full spread dedicated solely to capturing the movements of his hands. The next showed his shoulders, the one after that his neck.

“Why aren’t any of them finished?” he said, after a few moments of tense silence. Beneath his fingers he could see the frustration in the lines, feel Hisoka’s dissatisfaction with what he had created. Hisoka mumbled against his neck for a moment but Chrollo grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look him in the eye. “Talk like an adult,” he ordered. “I want to know.”

Rolling his eyes, Hisoka sighed. “Because I wasn’t happy with them,” he gave, his face still a bit flushed with embarrassment. “It’s hard to get it right.”

Taking another glance at the drawings, Chrollo couldn’t find any flaw. Everything was him, every line had captured his mannerisms and form. “I think they look perfect,” he shot, trying to needle Hisoka into giving him a bit more than vague explanations. “Or are you saying I’m just a difficult subject for a master to work from?”

Hisoka ran his fingers through his hair and looked as if he wished he were anywhere but here. “Maybe I’d do better if I weren’t sketching from memory,” he finally huffed, hooking his chin over Chrollo’s shoulder to better glare at his attempts. “You’re a rather dynamic subject. My memories rarely do you justice.”

It was Chrollo’s turn to avoid scrutiny. The introspection built between them and he couldn’t break himself away from the drawings in his lap.

“Let me paint you.”

It broke the silence like a bell and Chrollo almost jumped, turning to take in the artist with a look of confusion. “Excuse me?” he asked.

Hunger tinged Hisoka’s assessing gaze, bleeding into his voice like a miasma. “Please,” he breathed, taking Chrollo’s cheek in his hand as he had the night they met. “Let me.”

“Why me?” Chrollo shot back, stunned. They were so close, only inches from each other and Chrollo felt his breath stutter. “I’m just-”

“You’re intoxicating,” Hisoka interjected, something almost manic in his eyes.

He balked but didn’t get very far, the hand on his cheek holding him in place like a startled horse to an immovable post. “You look mad.”

“Perhaps it’s just the witchcraft you all see so easily. Please, Chrollo,” he begged, coming so much closer. “Be my muse.”

 He couldn’t hold the artist’s gaze so he turned back to the sketchbook in his hands. The lines were so confident, building pieces but longing for something more. Chrollo looked into Hisoka’s eyes and struggled to breath in a room suddenly devoid of air.

“I think I already am.”

oOo

Another draft tore through the studio and Chrollo shivered hard enough for the fabric to slip another inch down his hips. Hisoka raised his brow and barely hid his smile behind his easel. “I never pegged you to be the fidgety type,” he teased.

“And I never pegged you for such a miser. You’re a successful artist,” he groused, growing impatient in his discomfort. “Common sense would dictate that you would have a properly heated studio.” Hisoka’s grin made his skin prickle in the drafty space, his golden eyes sweeping hotly along his bared flesh.

Even after hours of this Chrollo still wasn’t accustomed to the scrutiny. The cloth dropped another inch and Hisoka finally saw fit to move.

He drew closer with a calming smile meant no doubt to pacify Chrollo’s growing unease. “It’s not that chilly in here, Chrollo,” he replied, running his hands along Chrollo’s shoulders and down to his hips to fix the falling wrap.

Chrollo didn’t let him pull away, instead leaning into the artist and soaking in the lovely warmth Hisoka exuded like the sun. “I disagree. Why did you want me to model for you nude anyway? This is hardly comfortable for me.” His cheek was pressed to Hisoka’s heart and he could feel every nuance of the man’s laugh. Below it he could just make out his heartbeat. He felt his own rush to match.

Pressing a kiss to his hair, Hisoka pulled back just enough to take him in, his eyes devouring what he saw. The charcoal on his hands left dark smudges in their wake, a stark contrast to Chrollo’s pale skin.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you like this? You’re beautiful. It’s hard to feel guilty,” he nearly purred and Chrollo’s frown went ignored in favor of kissing him.

It took Chrollo pushing Hisoka’s face away to breathe and he tried to ignore the blush staining his cheeks. There was no ounce of the cold remaining. “Shouldn’t you be working?” he gasped, clenching his fingers in the cloth that threatened to fall back down with every furtive twitch of Hisoka’s searching hands. They had never kissed before, never given in to whatever was building between them. His mind raced to keep up but it was a forgone conclusion.

“Oh, but I thought you were uncomfortable. You’re suddenly so ready for more,” he joked.

Hisoka darted in for another breath-stealing kiss, his tongue teasing Chrollo’s lips with promises of so much more. With the dam broken, he seemed intent on making up for lost time. Just as Chrollo began to ache for something more, he pulled away with one last kiss pressed to the fluttering pulse point of Chrollo’s throat.

“Be patient with me, Chrollo. It won’t be much longer,” he whispered, tracing the sharp line of Chrollo’s cheekbone.  

He sounded sincere at least and Chrollo bit his tongue on the smart, knee-jerk reply. Instead he looked around the studio, searching for something to occupy his attention that wasn’t Hisoka staring back at him. His breathing was shaky and his body felt weak but the cool air did wonders to calm him down.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he called out after the silence had settled back around them, dull and painful in the embers of their kiss. “Tell me what you see when you look at me.”

Golden eyes peered back at him past the easel, Hisoka’s brow quirked. “I’m not sure any words could ever do you justice. There is a reason I express myself with color and not language.” His charcoals whispered across the canvas, never stopping their dance.

Chrollo frowned and continued to press. “Try anyway. I want to know. Help me understand.”

Slowly the sound of the charcoal lessened, stopping altogether as Hisoka thought. “You’re a challenge,” he started, choosing his words with care enough to taste. “I look at you and I see—” he cut himself off.

After a breath he began again.

“The moment we met in the studio that night, you let me touch you,” Hisoka recounted, something emphatic in his voice. “But it’s just allowance. You let people interact, admire, touch, but only for that moment. I’ve watched you on the streets, how you move and exist alongside the masses but never quite on the same level. You’re untouchable but never static. Like placing your hand in sunlight.”

Hisoka met his eyes, something unreadable in them. “I wanted to keep you on my own terms. Pin you down into something I can shape myself. Something outside of time, so I could feel like I left something on you that you couldn’t just shake off.”

Silence punctuated the statement, growing heavy and thick between them. Hisoka almost seemed embarrassed if the way he avoided Chrollo’s gaze was any indication. Clearing his throat, he drew with renewed fervor. “Anyway. Just wait a bit longer. I’m almost done.”

Chrollo struggled for breath, caught off balance by the blatant honesty, the poetry in the man before him.

Bunching the cloth in his fist, Chrollo closed the distance between them faster than Hisoka could react. He spared the canvas hardly a glance, simply snatching the charcoal from lax fingers to throw it to the side. “I’m tired of waiting,” he whispered, sliding easily into the artist’s lap. The fabric was released in favor of feeling Hisoka’s hair, leaving him only loosely covered and longing for the touch of warm skin against his own.  

To his credit, Hisoka didn’t appear too surprised by the forwardness. He wrapped his arms around Chrollo eagerly, dipping his fingers below the edge of the slipping cloth to cup his ass and pull him closer.  “I’m not quite done yet,” Hisoka murmured, his warm breath tickling the sensitive spot behind Chrollo’s ear.

Chrollo looked over his shoulder at the sketch beginning to take shape on the easel, the telltale curve of his hip meeting the folds of the cloth so utterly realistic that he ached to touch it and feel the texture beneath his fingers. His breath caught in his throat when he met his own eyes. Hisoka brushed his hair behind his ear, smiling against his skin as he settled his warm hands on his thighs.

“And you asked me why I wanted to draw you nude,” he breathed, finally giving in to the urge to touch Chrollo. His fingertips trailed along the length of Chrollo’s cock, ghostlike touches that ignited and teased. “You are so infuriatingly beautiful, Chrollo. I can’t get enough.”

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the drawing and Hisoka simply turned him to face the easel, letting him look his fill as he ran his hands along every inch of bare skin he could reach. Chrollo gasped as he was worked to hardness, his nails clawing at Hisoka’s forearms as they held him still. His legs fell open on either side of Hisoka’s and it was entirely too exposed of a position.

Fingers brushed against his entrance and he suddenly didn’t care.

“Bed,” he gasped, trying to tear himself away from the heat and promise of more. “Bed, Hisoka, we need a bed.”

As enamored as he was with the portrait, he had no desire to get caught by a curious apprentice wandering about. Hisoka seemed to agree, or at least understand that they weren’t in the best position to get the most out of this given their current location. “Up, come on,” he moaned, easing Chrollo down from his lap, his hands hardly helping matters with how they refused to stop exploring. “My room is upstairs.”

The words hardly registered but Chrollo trusted Hisoka to lead. He grabbed for the fallen fabric and covered himself the best he could, the process hampered considerably by the deluge of kisses being rained down upon him every time he so much as breathed. Already he could feel a mark rising on the back of his neck from Hisoka’s clever mouth.

They maneuvered the room in a daze, tripping inelegantly over each other in their haste to make it upstairs while simultaneously touching as much as possible. Hisoka’s mouth was everywhere, pulling the breath from Chrollo’s lungs as his back met the door to the stairs, his hands scrambling against the wood behind him for the door handle. The cloth around his hips dangerously slipped but Chrollo couldn’t tear himself away long enough to care.

Chrollo had no idea how they managed to navigate the steps but the next thing he knew was the feeling of Hisoka’s bed against his back and a warm mouth on his cock. Soft hair threaded through his fingers and he gasped for breath, Hisoka licking and sucking confidently. “Hisoka, please,” he whined, yanking at the red hair until Hisoka looked him in the eye, which was a heady thing all its own. “Come on, take off your clothes.”

Pulling off with a wet pop, Hisoka grinned and did as he was told. His paint spattered shirt fluttered to the ground, his pants following just as quickly. Chrollo groaned, his head falling back onto the pillows. Hisoka always spoke of how beautiful Chrollo was, but there was nothing lacking in what he saw before him. Pale skin, strong muscle, and with a smirk that knew; Hisoka bared himself shamelessly and proudly, a work of art all his own.

He let him gloat for a few moments before dragging Hisoka into his arms, rolling so he could luxuriate in the artist below him. Chrollo couldn’t keep his hands or hips still, grinding himself against the hard cock pressed against his own. Fingers tightened on his waist and moved him harder, faster. Their lips met in an open mouthed kiss, drinking each other in as deeply as they could.

It wasn’t enough.

Impatient and hungry, Chrollo broke the kiss with a wet gasp. “Do you have—” he began, but Hisoka was already moving. He pulled away enough to let the artist reach for his supplies, taking from some space below the bed a vial of oil. Flowers scented the air as the cork was popped and they wasted no time in slicking themselves. Chrollo made as if to stretch himself but Hisoka batted his hand away, a look of heat dominating his gaze.

“Let me,” he breathed, reaching back to prod wet fingers against his entrance, as if this were another form of worship, of holding him in place.

Chrollo bit his lip and pushed back, wanting it all. “Do it, please,” he moaned back, bringing Hisoka’s other hand up to touch his chest. “I want you so much, Hisoka.”

The first finger pressed inside and sent him writhing, bucking his hips in search of more. His head rolled on his shoulder, his eyes half lidded as he stared down at Hisoka’s reverent expression. He licked his lips, tasting the artist and longing for more. Another finger sent him keening and it couldn’t go fast enough.

Thankfully Hisoka seemed just as desperate as he was. He scissored his fingers, stretching him as quickly as he could while he ground their cocks together. Chrollo grew wild, riding his hand as his own clenched the sheets at his sides. “Enough,” he groaned. “I’m ready, I’m more than ready. Hisoka, fuck me.”

With a grace far past what Chrollo could ever hope to match, Hisoka rolled them, hovering over Chrollo with his cock pressed teasingly against his entrance. His eyes were heavy on Chrollo’s body, so similar to how he looked as he drew. Chrollo flushed at the scrutiny, biting his lip as gentle fingers traced the shape of his lips, the curve of his cheek. The thumb strayed too close and he pulled it into his mouth, tasting the rose oil.

“You’re ethereal,” Hisoka breathed, finally pressing inside as slowly and carefully as he could. He chased Chrollo’s tongue with his own, their lips flavored like flowers and need. Chrollo gave back as much as he could before he was forced to break away, his lungs greedy for air as Hisoka rolled his hips and took him apart.

His eyes opened when a hand cupped his cheek, bringing him to stare into molten gold. Words unspoken weighed down the air between them, sticking in Chrollo’s lungs like honey. Nothing could taste as sweet and Chrollo surged up for another kiss, searching for more.

He could easily become addicted.

\-----

Chrollo dozed through Hisoka’s restless shifting until he finally could ignore it no more. Lifting himself onto his elbows, he glared at his bedmate bleary eyed. “What are you doing?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes until his vision focused.

“Shhh, go back to sleep,” Hisoka hushed, setting the sketchpad to the side so he could kiss the frown from Chrollo’s mouth.

Whining a little, Chrollo wrapped his arms around Hisoka’s neck to deepen the kiss. His thigh straddled Hisoka’s, pressing them deliciously together. “If you keep drawing me and nothing else your clients will get angry,” he murmured, letting Hisoka mouth at his throat so he could take in the sketch spread across the page.

It was him asleep, the sheet draped across his hips though it hid hardly anything. Chrollo gasped as Hisoka nipped a spot he had marked hours before. He could see the dusting of bruises on his counterpart’s skin as well.

Pencil dust coated Hisoka’s fingertips and they left smudges along his sides, tracing out their own shapes and designs between his ribs. “You captivate me,” Hisoka whispered and Chrollo shuddered, burying his face in the man’s chest. “I don’t care what others might think, so long as you let me near.”

Chrollo didn’t have time to respond before his back met the mattress, Hisoka devouring him body and soul. His hands ached to touch and his lips to beg but his mind seemed filled with fog, his arms heavy above his head.

He tasted devotion against his lips and it was more than enough to sate.

oOo

Chrollo glared at the scrap of paper before him, biting his lip as he scrubbed away yet another messy line.

“You’ll bite through your lip at that rate,” Hisoka chided behind him, looming over his shoulder with a raised brow. “Whatever are you toiling away at? You rarely look so intent.”

A burst of panic and white hot embarrassment shot through his veins and Chrollo quickly threw his elbow over the abortive sketch. “Nothing,” he snapped defensively, his cheeks a furious shade of crimson. He was probably as red as Hisoka’s paint palette, that shade he used to grant his pomegranates a deeper hue.

It was a testament to the long hours he spent within the studio that he knew enough of color theory to make that analogy.

Hisoka, encouraged by his no doubt flustered state, only came closer.

“Oh come on, Chrollo,” he crooned like one would to a particularly stubborn animal. “You can show me.”

“I most certainly cannot,” he shot back, curling protectively over his paper. “I don’t need you making fun of me.”

Raising a brow, Hisoka wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, a laugh on his lips. This close, Chrollo could smell the heady scent the artist always wore, some mixture of paint, wood, and Florentine perfume. As distracting as it was, he stood firm.

“But Chrollo,” Hisoka whispered against his temple, his mouth skimming so gently through his hair he shivered. “I could never make fun of you. You’re my muse, my light. Won’t you show me? Please?”

Chrollo knew he was damned, and for many reasons. Hisoka was certainly several of them. As much as he wished to ignore him, to push him away and tear the paper to pieces before he could look, he sighed.

“Promise you won’t laugh.”

Instead of Hisoka’s solemn oath, he found himself being kissed.

The moment he could breathe again, he frowned at the artist smiling at him. “That wasn’t a promise, Hisoka,” he complained breathlessly. A hand reached towards his and he only gave a token protest when Hisoka stole the paper from beneath his arm. He couldn’t bring himself to watch as the artist scrutinized the terrible drawing, instead looking resolutely at the way the light played on the painting to his right.

He would be impressed if Hisoka even realized he had been trying to copy it for himself.

“This is the Pieta over there, right?” Hisoka said after a couple minutes of silent assessment.

Chrollo felt his mouth fall open for a moment but he quickly schooled himself. “It’s supposed to be.” He tried to make a grab for the sheet, embarrassment and shame thick in his throat but Hisoka dodged his pathetic swipe easily.

“Come on, give it back,” he whined, tugging at Hisoka’s sleeve. “I know it’s terrible, you don’t have to keep rubbing salt in the wound.” For a moment he wondered if he’d be able to wrestle it away if he pushed the artist over.

Hisoka tightened the arm holding Chrollo by the waist, preventing him from acting on the wild thought.

“You are such a delight,” he said, the mirth in his voice anything but reassuring. “It’s not terrible at all, Chrollo. Sure, you’re a little unpolished but it’s not like this is your vocation.”

Frowning, Chrollo tried to free himself from the artist’s hold. “Don’t patronize me,” he hissed. “I’m not a child, you don’t have to coddle me to preserve my feelings.”

Hisoka rolled his eyes and pressed another kiss to his cheek.

It didn’t make Chrollo feel better. He struggled harder.

“Oh my goodness, Chrollo,” Hisoka exclaimed, throwing his leg over Chrollo’s to further keep him in place. “It’s really not bad. Would you stop thrashing like a wet cat and let me show you something?”

Realizing he wasn’t going to free himself, he stopped wriggling. Crossing his arms, he glared at the artist, pointedly waiting. Hisoka sighed and snatched the forgotten pencil stub and placed the paper back on the table, tracing over the unconfident lines, smoothing the ragged curves.

“You have the right idea,” he gave, transforming the face of the Madonna into something actually resembling humanoid within a matter of seconds. “Let me see your hand.”

Reluctantly Chrollo gave it, flushing in indignation as Hisoka wrapped his fingers around the pencil, holding his hand in his own to guide him through the motions of proper line work. Warmth bled through his clothing, Hisoka pressed so closely that it took effort to focus on what their joined hands were doing.

“I’m not one of your students, you don’t have to do this,” he mumbled, even as he watched the messy sketch turn into something beautiful. It was hard to think it had ever begun as something he had created or that together they could manage to make a piece of art.

Hisoka hummed, guiding his hand gently, effortlessly. “I’m well aware. I don’t do this with my students. Either they learn or they leave. Here, try it on your own now.”

Chrollo frowned again, but this time in concentration. He was under scrutiny now and though his hand had a better idea of how to move, his lines still came out a bit shaky.

Shaky, but far improved from his solo attempts.

Childlike glee filled him as he managed to draw a cherubim on his own. The wings were mismatched, the face nigh on unreadable, but the shape was there and the subject clear. Before he could help himself he gave a startled laugh, looking at Hisoka in excitement.

He found his pride mirrored in golden eyes and this time he smiled into the kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so, this was the culmination of an entire semester of art history on the Renaissance and i hope you guys found it both educational and enjoyable because the subject matter certainly captured my imagination. i really wanna dedicate this to every single artist out there tirelessly honing their craft. this was written as sort of my love song to you guys because i am endlessly and eternally entranced by what magic you weave through your art. thank you guys for being so awesome and never stop doing what you love. 
> 
> check me out on tumblr (terminallydepraved) and let me know how you liked this. until next time~


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